


i'm the sweetest damn thing you ever saw (suddenly you don't know me at all)

by notcaycepollard



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Human Disaster Phil Coulson, Pining, Tumblr Prompt, pancakes vs waffles, secret meetings, skoulsonfest2k16redux
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-07-26 16:03:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7580824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notcaycepollard/pseuds/notcaycepollard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Did you want a receipt?” the waitress asks, gum-popping and bored, and he nods, finishes his coffee, waits for her to get back with his card. She snaps it down onto the table, folded into the torn receipt, and he sticks it in his wallet, goes to crumple the paper up in his fist. Sees the handwriting, a little note under the line for the tip, and glances at it off-hand.</p><p><em>You should have gone for pancakes, AC,</em> it says, and suddenly his heart is beating hard. He looks around the diner as if he’ll see her - as if she hasn’t melted away already, easy as a ghost - and then touches his fingers to the handwriting, traces the looping scrawl.</p><p>The first message from Daisy in almost a year, and he can hear just how she’d have said it, teasing and amused and so tender he’s a little breathless, just from the curve of her <em>C</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i'm the sweetest damn thing you ever saw (suddenly you don't know me at all)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Persiflage](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persiflage/gifts), [zauberer_sirin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zauberer_sirin/gifts).



He’s stopped looking, that’s how it starts.

The mission is a failure - the mission always seems to be a failure now, and he tries not to think about that, tries not to wonder how the Inhumans they’re looking for are always gone just before he arrives - and he’s far enough away from base that when he realizes he’s hungry he just gives in, pulls in at a shitty diner along the way. It’s a depressing end to a depressing day. The coffee is bad but strong and he drinks three cups of it, thick and black, before his waffles arrive. They’re soggy, oversweet with syrup, a little lumpy where the batter hasn’t been whisked properly. He didn’t really expect anything else, but he eats them anyway. Stares out the window, and tries not to think about how this is his life now. It’s been three months since he even saw Daisy through a surveillance scope. She’s gotten better, or perhaps he’s gotten worse.

“Did you want a receipt?” the waitress asks, gum-popping and bored, and he nods, finishes his coffee, waits for her to get back with his card. She snaps it down onto the table, folded into the torn receipt, and he sticks it in his wallet, goes to crumple the paper up in his fist. Sees the handwriting, a little note under the line for the tip, and glances at it off-hand.

 _You should have gone for pancakes, AC_ , it says, and suddenly his heart is beating hard. He looks around the diner as if he’ll see her - as if she hasn’t melted away already, easy as a ghost - and then touches his fingers to the handwriting, traces the looping scrawl.

“Excuse me,” he asks, just on the off-chance, “did anyone- did you see anyone at the counter before you brought this over?”

“No, hon,” the waitress shrugs, distracted already by her next customers. Coulson knows it was a long shot, but he can’t help feeling disappointed anyway. She was _here_ \- she was breathing the same air, watching him eat, seeing the slump of his shoulders. He folds the receipt, tucks it carefully into his wallet. The first message from Daisy in almost a year, and he can hear just how she’d have said it, teasing and amused and so tender he’s a little breathless, just from the curve of her _C_.

 

The next time, he’s in a hotel room, on an assignment so dull he’s hard-pressed to take it seriously. Days like this, he’s tempted to quit, to just hand in his lanyard and gun. Lay them on Talbot’s desk, walk away, don’t look back. _Is that what you want to do_ , he thinks to himself, _run?_ He can’t help but see her face the way he remembers it. _Couldn’t even if I wanted to_ , she’d told him, and then, later, _I can’t leave my team_. Later again, she hadn’t said anything. Just left, quiet and careful, guilt and grief in every moment.

He shakes his head, tries not to think about it. He’s just tired and hungry, is all. Should probably go out, find something to eat. Get some rest. Stop dwelling on the past.

There’s a knock at the door, and he frowns, gets to his feet, opens the door just a crack. Gun drawn behind the door, just in case.

“Room service,” the hotel employee says, and Coulson feels his frown get bigger.

“I didn’t-” he starts, and the guy shrugs.

“Order called down to the kitchen. Pre-paid for, tip and everything. You want it or not?”

“Yeah,” Coulson says, slowly. Opens the door wider, takes the tray from him. “Yeah, okay. Thanks.”

“Have a nice night,” the server says, and Coulson shuts the door, puts the tray down on the bed. Sits down, and lifts the silver dome. A plate of blueberry pancakes, fluffy and soft and perfectly golden. A pat of butter, a little jug of syrup, a bowl of whipped cream. He actually feels himself tear up, just a little, before he sits down on the bed and starts eating. Daisy’s still looking out for him, even now, and he can’t help but feel like he’s not doing the same.

The pancakes are good. Okay, the pancakes are delicious, he’s happy to admit that. He’s just finishing the last mouthful when he sees the receipt, tucked under the plate. Pulls it out just to check, but there’s no note this time. He’s about to drop it back on the tray when he looks again. It’s not a room service receipt. It’s from a cafe in the next city over, and when he looks closer, there are numbers that have been circled in the credit card line. A date, he realizes, next Friday, and the tip reads _11-00_ like it’s a time.

 _It’s a date_ , he thinks. He can still taste syrup and blueberries, faint like the memory of a kiss.

 

He makes it to the cafe without incident. Four months ago, someone would have been watching him, he’s sure of it. Would have been suspicious as to his motive. But he’s given up, these days. Plays the agent they need. Some days he’s not even sure it’s an act.

The cafe is aggressively hipster, a menu promising raw, vegan, paleo. No pancakes, but Coulson rolls his eyes, orders their wholegrain vegan waffles. This is Daisy teasing him, he’s pretty sure, and he doubts whipped coconut cream and apple puree will make these waffles much better than the pancakes she’d ordered him. At least the coffee is good.

Coulson’s not _distracted_ , exactly, he’s too good an agent for that even now, but the cafe is busy. He’s tucked away into a corner table, an empty chair across from him, but as the place fills up with the morning rush, kids ordering brunch and waiting on takeaway coffee, he lets himself sink into the chatter of it. When his waffles arrive, they don’t even look bad. He eats a bite, smiles a little. Glances around, sips his coffee.

“Do you mind if I sit?” a woman asks. “I’m just waiting on coffee.” California vowels all stretched out, blonde hair pulled into a ponytail tucked through her baseball cap. It’s 11.47. He’d guessed already Daisy’s not gonna show, that the waffles are the point of this whole thing. He nods, hardly looking up, and she slides sideways into the seat, leans back against the wall. “Oh, those look good,” she adds, and he nods again, polite.

“They’re okay,” he agrees. Touches his hand to his mouth.

“Yeah,” she murmurs, “you know pancakes are better, though,” and that has him looking up in shock, eyes round. “Eyes down, Phil,” she says, “play it cool, you know better than that,” and after a moment or two, he looks away. Forces himself to sip his coffee, casual and easy.

“Daisy,” he says, almost under his breath. Glances up again, quick. She’s playing with her phone as if she’s just waiting for her order. With the blonde hair, the activewear and yoga mat slung over one shoulder, she’s almost unrecognizable. He guesses that’s the point.

“Miss me?” she says, quiet enough nobody else will hear it, and god, he can’t help it, he has to look at her again.

“Daisy, I…”

“Eat your waffles, Phil,” she tells him. Swings her legs down under the table, turns to face him. Lays her phone on the table, screen down. “I’ve just given us two minutes of surveillance interference, so I need you to listen.”

He listens. Didn’t even know he was bugged. Daisy’s more like herself than she’s ever been, intent and careful and so beautiful it hurts.

“I need you on this,” she finishes. “Can I trust you?” _Do you have my back, Phil_ , she’s saying, and of course she does. Of course.

“Yes,” he says, and it feels inadequate. He’d say yes to her a hundred times. A thousand. Would have run with her, if she’d asked. She’d never have asked. It makes her smile, though. A smile less complicated than her expression was a moment ago. His heart catches behind his teeth.

“Good,” she whispers. “Good. Now give me a bite of those before I have to go.” It startles him; he drops his knife clattering onto his plate before he recovers himself, cuts off a neat segment. Pushes toppings onto it, and hands it to her, watches her pull the mouthful into her mouth. She chews thoughtfully, swallows, sucks a smudge of apple off her lower lip. “Not bad,” she says. “Pancakes are still better.”

“You haven’t had my waffles,” Coulson says, raises one eyebrow. Is surprised to discover himself falling back into old habits, and from Daisy’s face, she is too. She laughs - oh _god_ , her laugh clutches in his chest - and reaches for his coffee, lifts it to her mouth. Sips like she has a right to.

“Take better care of yourself,” she tells him. “You’re looking tired, these days.”

“It’s hard, searching for someone who doesn’t want to be found,” he admits, and feels Daisy kick his ankle under the table.

“Then stop looking,” she says, “don’t you see I’ll come to you when I’m ready?” And then the barista is calling a name - _Carol_ \- and she flashes him another smile, picks up her phone. Grabs her paper cup of coffee and is gone, just like that. There’s lipstick on the rim of his cup, just a little print of it. Her mouth, pressed against it, and he can’t help but touch his lip when he looks at it.

 

He follows up on the lead she’s fed him, and it doesn’t seem to do much at first. Then, slowly, like the catalyst to a chain reaction, he sees things begin to turn. He can see where to push, how to play it, and if he’s only an actor in her plan, he’s willing enough to be used for a cause like this. It takes months, slow going, but the day they agree to renegotiate the Registration Act, he can feel it all unlocking. The shape of what’s to come.

He’s in a crappy motel again that night. On the road constantly, playing SHIELD agent and Daisy’s inside man both at the same time. A Russian nesting doll of secrets, maybe, and he’s fairly sure Mack is the same. Joey too, perhaps. They don’t talk about it, just to be safe. There are so many things nobody is saying anymore.

He takes a shower, deliberately ignoring the cracked tiles, the questionable cleanliness of the bathroom. Wraps the towel around his hips, and pushes open the bathroom door, and Daisy is sitting on his bed, cross-legged, dark-haired, reading his case files like she’s curious.

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” he manages, and she looks up. Grins at him.

“Hi, Phil.”

“A little warning would have been nice,” he tells her honestly. Can feel himself blushing. He’s in a towel, fuck, and she’s in no disguise at all. Just leggings, a soft sweater falling off one shoulder. Eyes wide and bright, biting her lip like she’s trying not to laugh.

“Sorry,” she says, not sounding sorry at all. “I’ll close my eyes while you get dressed?”

“You know, you’re much less respectful than you used to be,” he says as he gets a clean t-shirt and pair of sweats from his duffel. Glances over at her, just to make sure her eyes really are closed.

“Hmm,” she agrees. “I heard you’re not the Director anymore. Maybe that’s it.”

“Maybe,” he mutters. Pulls on the clothes. He still feels oddly naked, but she’s seen him in as much before.

“You know,” she tells him once he’s dressed, “I did knock.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“No, I didn’t,” she laughs. Leans back on her elbows. He just looks at her, can’t help it. Knows his face is too tender, saying too much, but it’s been _years_ , is all, since he saw her like herself. She’s not Skye anymore. She’s not a SHIELD agent anymore. He doesn’t even know if she’s _Daisy_ anymore, except she’s all of those things, all of those people, and Quake too. It’s too much; he has to look away. Bites his own lip without really realizing it.

“Are you coming in for good?” he asks, and she sighs.

“You know that I’m not.”

“Yeah,” he says. Tries not to feel how it stings. “Yeah, Daisy, I know.”

“I just,” she starts, “I-”

“I missed you,” he tells her. Too honest, too raw, but she sucks in a breath like she did too, maybe. “What do you need, Daisy?”

“Right now?” She goes still, looks at him for a long time. Yawns, just a little. “Perhaps I just wanted to see someone I know.”

“On a day like today.”

“Yeah,” she agrees. “Yeah, Phil, on a day like today. Feels like a good day for coming to you.”

“When you were ready, you said,” he murmurs, and she sits up, slides to the end of the bed. Doesn’t stand up, just sits there looking at him. She’s so _close_. He could touch her hair, the sooty-black cloud of it. It looks so soft.

“I did,” she says. “I did say that.”

“So,” he tries again. “What do you need?”

“You could-” she starts. Bites her lip, tucks her hair behind her ears. Fuck, _fuck_ , it’s so familiar, it’s everything he’s seen a thousand times. He knows what it means, that she’s doing this now. This isn’t Daisy trying to be anyone else. “Honestly? You could go get me something to eat, I’m _starving_.”

“Okay,” he agrees. “Sure. Okay. I’ll be back in a tick.”

“Hey,” she says. Catches his fingers in hers, squeezes his hand just a little. “Thanks, Phil.”

 

There’s nothing around for miles except McDonalds. He figures she won’t care - he’s seen her eat Hot Pockets straight from the freezer - so he goes through the drive-through, orders three servings of hotcakes and syrup, black coffee and orange juice. Gets back to the motel half-afraid she’ll be gone.

She’s not gone. She’s stretched out on the bed, asleep, the TV halfway through some dumb eighties movie. She stirs when he shuts the door, blinks sleepily up at him, and he suddenly wonders how much rest she’s been getting. _Take better care of yourself_ , he thinks, _you’re looking tired, these days_. How much has been on her shoulders, these last months? How much could he have taken, if she’d have let him?

“You’re wonderful,” she sighs when she takes the bag from him, looks inside. “God, Coulson, you’re too good to me.” She eats without embarrassment, shoves pancakes into her mouth like she really is starving, and Coulson smiles to see it, eats his own pancakes more slowly. They’re silent, but it’s not awkward. Just companionable. He suddenly remembers bringing her grilled cheese, tomato soup. _Secret ingredient_ , he thinks, and laughs at himself. She blinks over at him, curious, and he ducks his head.

“It’s nothing,” he tells her, “just- this isn’t the first time I’ve brought you food, huh.”

“Care and feeding of your local superhero,” she quips, and that makes him laugh again, softer. He would, god he would. If she’d let him.

She licks syrup off her fingers when she’s done, piles the trash back into the paper bag. Pitches it at the bin, expert, and lounges back against the wall like she’s not going anywhere.

“What’s the plan?” he asks, suddenly nervous, and she shrugs.

“Right now? I’m here with you. Tomorrow, I’ll figure out tomorrow.”

“You’re staying?” His voice cracks, just a little. Daisy closes her eyes, opens them again. Eyes dark and intent.

“You want me to?”

“I never wanted anything else,” he admits, and then they’re both moving, sliding into each other’s space like they’ve just been waiting. Her lips are syrup-sticky and she tastes of fake butter and Coulson touches her hair, finally, touches like he’s been wanting to. _Years and years_ of this, and here they are in a crappy motel and Daisy’s licking into his mouth, her hands on his shoulders, on the nape of his neck, and god, he’s never wanted so much.

“I couldn’t,” she’s saying, “I couldn’t, Phil, I couldn’t _stay_ , but god, I-”

“I know, I know,” he whispers. Kisses her again, the curve of her cheek, the sharp angle of her jaw. “I know, you don’t have to- god, I _know_ , Daisy, you had to, it’s fine, it’s okay.”

“I missed you,” she says, bites at his mouth like she’s desperate. “Every day. Every _fucking_ day. I knew you were watching me, you and Mack. I was watching you right back.”

“ _Oh_ ,” he manages, and feels it wreck him. Lets it. Her hands are up under his shirt, and they’re falling into each other, and it’s everything he’s wanted for so long.

 

“Let me make you waffles,” he says afterwards. Drags his fingertips lightly down her spine, and feels her shiver. Sees the shape of her smile even as she burrows her face down into the pillow.

“When are you going to make me _waffles_ , Coulson,” she teases, and he shrugs.

“When you have time,” he says, like it’s simple. “When you’re comfortable coming to the base for a visit. Or you can come to my apartment, I have one off-base now. You must know that.”

“I do,” she agrees. “It’s depressing, Phil. You need more art. I like the color of your bedspread, though.”

“Oh, you’re an expert?” he says. Kisses her shoulder blade. “Wait, there are no sightlines into my bedroom, I _checked_.”

“I’m very good at picking locks,” she tells him, and it makes him breathless all over again, the idea that Daisy’s been in his house. Checking on him, even as he’s been searching for her. She’s been there all along. _Let me come to you when I’m ready_.

“Why did you…” he starts. Doesn’t know how to finish. _Why did you reach out, that first time? Why’d you write me a note, after so long?_

“You stopped looking,” Daisy whispers. Turns onto her side, pulls Coulson down onto the pillow so she can look into his face. Touches her fingers to the corner of his mouth. He kisses her fingertips, and she smiles briefly, a flash before her face draws serious again. “You stopped looking, and you looked so sad, Phil, I thought- I had to, is all. That’s all.”

“I did,” he agrees. Remembers the diner, the defeat he’d felt. “Yeah, I did.”

“Plus,” she adds, “those waffles would have made anyone sad. I was _compelled_ to reach out.”

“Oh, I see,” he says. “ _I_ see. Compelled to share the gospel of pancakes.”

“You know it,” she grins. Leans in for another kiss, and then another, and maybe she won’t stay, not forever, but he knows now she’ll come back. She’ll _be_ back. It’s enough, for now.

**Author's Note:**

> Persiflage prompted 'pancakes vs waffles' and becketted prompted 'secret meetings', obvi they combined to form a greater whole
> 
> how could I have gone so long without the singular joy that is Phil Coulson: human disaster
> 
> *blows kisses @ u all*


End file.
